


why the flood rolls in

by EchoDoctor



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Gen, several other characters show up but these two are the only ones who actually talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoDoctor/pseuds/EchoDoctor
Summary: It's hard for a singer to make it big in this town, but Mettaton knows he's on the way up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> To Bird, in case you're wondering: yes, this _is_ why I asked.

It was going to rain again tonight.

Seemed like every night for the last damn year had been rain, but that couldn’t be right. Things kept on growing, more or less, even if most of what the city grew was buildings and bad habits. But the little windowsill gardens and scrappy weeds coming up through the pavement weren’t quite dead yet, so that meant they must’ve seen the Sun.

Even if no one could quite remember the last time _they’d_ seen it.

What he could remember- what he both didn’t want to remember and, desperately, didn’t want to forget- was the stars. The stars had shown almost as bright in the river as they had in the sky, reflecting off the water and in the shine of their eyes. It’d all been so damn _clear_ out there, the big wide sky spread out over their little family farm, the moon the only light for miles around.

Clear and empty.

Two cousins left, and they’d started out with… God, who knew how many? Half of them had left when he was too young to remember anyway, or care much about the few dim memories he had. Just faces across the dinner table, blurred by time, the occasional joke he could almost recall the punchline to. The ones closer to their ages, that’d hit harder. He’d never shed a tear for them, never was the type, but he’d held Blooky close and murmured reassurances for each time, while they cried for the both of them.

There hadn’t been any reassurances that night at the riverbank. No promises made, because how could they ever need them? They’d known each other so perfectly back then, lying there in the reeds and the mud and staring up into the light, whispering secrets and stories to each other. It seemed ridiculous, impossible, that it could ever end. Such bright and shining things weren’t meant to be broken.

Stupid, really, to think that way: half the time, broken things were brighter. That was how they made the best glitter, wasn’t it? He’d heard that, once. Thousands and thousands of the finest little pieces of ground glass, smashed and shattered as far as they could go, until they were almost back to being sand again.

Someone had been laughing about how impractical it all was, he remembered- how’d anyone ever sell something like that? You couldn’t use it on people, no one would want to put it on. After all, who’d want to risk something like that against their skin? All those tiny sharp points, cutting yourself to death bit by bit in the name of beauty.

Stupid of them, to say that: he would have taken it in a heartbeat. Dusted himself down in diamonds, so he could reflect the spotlight that he deserved, every glimmering point strewn through the dark richness of his hair like stars in the sky.

You could watch the stars, or you could be a star. He knew there wasn’t room to be both. A dark little farmhouse, half in disrepair, serving fresh harvests to a market that had started to wither on the vine long ago. There was no future there. There was no _life_ there, not for him. Not for _him_.

But he could remember the riverbank, and the way they’d smiled at him, so long ago. And even though they’d been laughing that night, somehow in his memory the starlight always shown off the tears in their eyes…

Mettaton startled awake with a gasp.

He’d been perched on the windowsill, leaning against the frame and staring out into the sky. Thunder rumbled in the distant clouds, promising that soon there’d be another storm, with the streets still strewn with puddles from last night. You had to be careful with those- some of them were shallow, but others concealed wide cracks or missing chunks of pavement. Step wrong, and you’d be lucky if you only broke an ankle. Worse, you might lose a shoe, and if you were buying the right kind of shoes (or even their better-quality knockoffs), finding a proper replacement would cost more than a hospital bill.

After all, people were replaceable- the city had plenty. Designer fashion was _unique._

(Then again, maybe it wasn’t just the city. The river could be treacherous too, if you let yourself get swept off your feet by the current.)

Shaking his head to clear away the ragged odd-ends of his dreams, Mettaton hurried over to the wide wooden vanity table that dominated a full half of the room. He’d dozed off, lulled into a light and restless sleep by the low, rhythmic voice of the coming storm, and now he’d have to hurry if he wanted to make it in to work on time.

And he very much _did_ want to be on time- the stage waited for no one, and there’d be Hell to pay if the club’s star singer wasn’t there when the curtains went up.  

Soon enough he’d been the star of much more than that, and they’d all be there just to see him. But this neon-lit nightshift job was the start he needed, he knew- it put him out there on the stage for people to discover, and paid the ever-mounting bills until the day he’d never need to worry about money again.

Besides, it might have been small and seedy, but that rush when he stepped out to the microphone, and every eye in the place was on him…

His lips curved into a distant smile, mind on visions of the future while his white-gloved hands moved in practiced patterns, putting himself together bit by bit with the ease of an expert. Lipstick here, eyeshadow there, a touch of hairspray…

Almost perfect.

That was to say, the face itself was perfect in every way- thanks to himself, and to darling doctor Alphys, long gone were the days he didn’t recognize the person in the mirror. No, the only problem was the context. After all, you wouldn’t put a masterpiece in some two-cent plastic picture frame, would you? This dingy little room above her dingy little clinic could only be a stepping stone. It was a place just for now, not a home.

Home was a long way off.

He stood up, nodding decisively at his reflection and closing the makeup compact with a snap. One last check of his outfit, to catch any missing details that might mar his perfection, and then he shrugged on the wide-collared raincoat and headed down the stairs.

Reaching the door, he paused for a moment. Alphys catered largely to those who preferred a more… discreet touch with their medical care, for whatever _undoubtedly excellent_ reasons. He didn’t judge. (Much.)

She charged little and said less, although that wasn’t that much of a trial for her, considering that awful stutter. To be entirely honest, he still wasn’t entirely sure if she was even _that_ kind of doctor at all, but he’d never actually asked. Their relationship was built on a well-woven foundation of very carefully only ever asking the _right_ questions, and he respected that particular mutual courtesy.

Still, the _charmingly roguish_ circumstances meant some of her clients were a bit _less_ inclined towards common courtesy, in that he’d once walked into the back room at the wrong time and had only very narrowly managed to avoid being knifed in the stomach. These days, he made a point of listening at the door for that specific tone of voice that meant it might be better to risk climbing out the window and down the drainpipe than taking the front way.

Tonight, the soft murmur of conversation and quiet little laugh he heard seemed fairly safe- Alphys did sometimes laugh nervously, but by now he knew her well enough to tell the difference between nerves and terror. He stepped out into the living room just in time to see a brief flash of yellow as she ducked hastily into the back room and shut the door behind her... although, not _quite_ hastily enough to stop him catching a quick glimpse of the other woman leaning nonchalantly against the wall, her long red ponytail spilling down over the muscled shoulders that the battered tank top of her dockworker’s uniform left bare.

He smirked. That _particular_ visitor was showing up more and more often these days, and he was happily looking forward to the night the two of them _finally_ picked up on each other’s increasingly unsubtle hints and got on with things, provided they weren’t loud enough to deprive him of his beauty sleep.

(The smart money, admittedly, was not on the doctor making the first move. Oddly enough for someone who was frequently wrist-deep in the more gruesome aspects of biology, Alphys could get terribly shy at the idea of anyone having a good look at _her_ body. He’d once made a teasing comment about worrying for her virtue, since everyone _knew_ what they said about those dockside girls, and the resulting fit of spluttered denials had lasted nearly a full minute, during which her cheeks had rather nicely matched the shade of her sweet and strong-armed lady’s hair.)

Pulling the coat closely around himself to block out the cold wind, he stepped out into the night.

Making his way briskly down the sidewalk, he nodded graciously at Muffet as he passed her storefront, where she was locking up for the night.

Well, one business was closing down, anyway. He had no doubt that any of the dozen other stores she owned might just be starting up for the night, at least for customers who knew to come in through the right side door in the right exceedingly nondescript alley. She’d never quite crossed the line into outright _crime_ , as far as he knew, but you could never be too sure with Muffet. The city was a rough place sometimes, and she held onto her piece of it very firmly, keeping a keen watch over every strand in the tangled web of her family’s enterprises.

Once, some swaggering idiot boy from out of town had moved in and started making all sorts of noises about her fussy little shops, with their delicately frilly décor and intricate pastries, and how they wouldn’t be holding on to the nighttime half of their business for much longer, or possibly any business at all. He’d moved back out again in a hurry.

At least, everyone assumed he’d moved out. He certainly _had_ left quite a lot of his things behind, and the polite note to his landlord explaining there’d be no more rent money coming from him had been rather hastily scrawled on the back of an unused coffee filter. Either way, no one had seen him anywhere in the city since. Mettaton’s business didn’t often overlap with hers, but he still made a point of being a very gentlemanly neighbor to her anyway.

It paid to be polite, just in case. Besides, flirt skillfully enough, and he might be looking at a bit of a discount the next time he was in the mood for a chocolate croissant.

Discounts from Muffet were a rare sign of favor indeed- normally Mettaton would have been offended at the notion that he wouldn’t be able to charm his way into outright getting away without paying, having long since proven that there _was_ such a thing as a free lunch if you looked pretty enough, but he had to begrudgingly admit that even _this_ face couldn’t get her down any further than about eighty percent of the full price.

Significantly farther down the road, he could feel the change in the atmosphere as he crossed from the older neighborhoods into the beating heart of the downtown business district. Only a little farther on was his destination, all the bright and brilliant nightlife that catered to the cubicle workers and accountants (along with anyone else who could pay for it) once the banks and law offices shut down for the night. Likely their services would be required again in the morning, since successfully having the time of your nightlife could occasionally result in an urgent need for a loan and a lawyer the next day.

But for now, they danced…

He looked over the skyline with discerning eyes, picking out which buildings were all darkened glass and which ones still had a light or two in the window, some unfortunate or unusually boring soul who’d agreed to stay late and finish up the work while everyone else went out to party the night away.

As always, he found his gaze inevitably drawn to the highest point of the city, where the winged circle of the Delta Rune burned in golden neon. On all the official documents, it was the main offices of the Dreemurr Corporation, but there wasn’t a single living soul in the city who didn’t call the tall, imposing building The Castle.

It dominated the skyline, all white and blue and gold, and from that high point came almost everything the city used, one way or another. It was all but impossible to find something that, if it didn’t have a Delta Rune stamped on it, had at least had something that did involved somewhere in the manufacturing process. He recalled, vaguely, hearing that they’d started out in mining, a long, long time ago, reaching endlessly down to bring treasures out of the depths of the earth, but now The Castle reached higher than anyone, all the way to the point where the stormclouds hid the sky.

And like any Castle, it had its King.

Asgore Dreemurr seemed almost as imposing as his fortress, a toweringly tall man with a wide smile and wider shoulders, an expensive suit not doing much to disguise the sheer heft of his muscles. Still, he seemed almost apologetic about his stature, both literal and metaphorical, and always seemed to go out of his way to welcome people and put them at ease. All his employees spoke well of him, and it was almost unheard of to find a restaurant in the city that _didn’t_ have a Mr. Dreemurr Ate Here photograph, with him smiling benevolently and posing next to the delighted chef.

Mettaton had been rather taken by the one at Muffet’s original café, with the burly man sweeping his mane of blond hair out of his eyes with one arm, and gallantly offering the relentlessly clever businesswoman the other to lean on, resting one delicate hand in the crook of his elbow.

Those sweet little interludes seemed to be getting rarer and rarer these days, though, photographs fading like the memories of an old tragedy, as the King spent more and more time alone in his Castle, sitting in the meticulously cared-for rooftop gardens and holding on to the precious reminders of a happier time, when a golden symbol had been expected to lead this city to a golden age.  

Mettaton straightened his back and turned sharply to continue walking, leaving the view of the Castle behind. Other people could falter and fade if they wanted, let go and lapse into obscurity. _His_ time was coming, and he would not be going quietly whenever the day came that they tried to end it. There had been more than enough waiting, and only a little more patience and persistence would see him at the dizzying heights where he had always been meant to be.

He felt himself relax slightly, the exhausted tension bleeding out of his posture to be replaced by warm, anticipatory excitement as he got closer and closer to that single perfect moment where the stage was undeniably his.

Coming up to the corner of the intersection, he slowed down and pushed the button for the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change so he could cross the street safely. Scanning his surroundings in idle boredom, his gaze drifted past the short, round figure leaning in a nearby doorway and the group of well-dressed young women talking cheerfully to each other as they headed out to a celebratory dinner, before coming to rest at a point somewhere in the middle of the traffic, watching the cars go by. He stared absently out into the distance, letting them pass unconsidered, until he saw them.

He would be unable afterward to describe what, exactly, captured his attention so powerfully. It was an old, worn-out sedan in an awkwardly indeterminate shade that might have once been purple, the sort of car driven by families who already had enough expenses putting their children through school and certainly weren’t going to waste money on buying this year’s latest model, a lifestyle he generally had very little time for.  

The front windows were rolled up, too dark to see anyone behind the shadowed glass, but the back one on the side facing him was halfway down, and behind it was a child. Their eyes were shut, dark lashes making gentle curves against their brown skin, as they sat silently upright with their face towards the window, as though trying to breathe in the atmosphere of the city and swallow down the storm before it broke.

Then just as the light changed they opened their eyes and, for a single moment before the car sped off out of view, their gaze met his and Mettaton found himself quietly stunned by a feeling he could not name, looking into a shade of deep, deep red.

He swayed on his feet slightly, lips parted and gaze distant as he was lost in a moment he could not understand, that feeling of _something_ just out of reach, some lost knowledge or forgotten truth, something so incredibly important and awe-inspiring in magnitude that he could not grasp it but dared not let go, leaving him frozen to the spot…

Another car managed to break the spell, by going straight through a puddle and splashing up a veritable wave of water as it veered sharply around the corner. Still slightly dazed, he flinched back from the impending soaking, seeing it coming but knowing that he wouldn’t be fast enough to stop it from thoroughly ruining his hair and makeup.

Suddenly, his vision was blocked by a blank wall of white, as he heard the dirty water splatter against something in front of him. Blinking in confusion and trying to reorient himself, he realized the impromptu barrier was a large square piece of white plastic attached to a thin strip of wood to form a simple sign. He followed it as it was lowered away from his face, and turned to meet the gaze of the short, scruffy man who’d been standing in the doorway earlier.

“Sorry about that, I’m not normally the type to shove a message in someone’s face. It just seemed a shame to ruin such a nice hairstyle,” he added with a wink and a slow, lazy grin.

Taking a closer look at the sign it read, in big, round, incongruously cheerful letters:

The End came and went again.

(You’re just unobservant.)

Mettaton smiled warmly, although he wasn’t entirely certain of the joke. Now he saw that what he’d originally taken for a long black coat was a battered old priest’s habit, worn over even more battered old jeans and, inexplicably, a pair of fuzzy pink carpet slippers. Judging by the bit of stained blue fabric that had been pulled out at the collar, he was wearing a hoodie under there too.

“Well, darling,” he purred, regaining his equilibrium at the speed of flirt. “It’s good to know you know a work of art when you see one.”

“What can I say? I just thought ‘wow, that Mettaton really knows his fashion’.”

He opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. “You know my name? Have… we met before?”

“Uh, that _is_ you on the posters over there, right?” He jerked a thumb casually back over his shoulder, and Mettaton followed to the front window of the club, where the poster for his nightly act did indeed list his name, plastered over a picture of him in the middle of a delightfully sultry pose.

“Mm, now I _definitely_ know you have good taste,” he answered, very firmly refusing to blush in embarrassment. “Now what brings a… man of the cloth _all_ the way out here.” It occurred to him that he might, in fact, be flirting with the kind of person who thought ‘prophet of doom’ was a good part-time job, but dismissed the concern as relatively unimportant.

“Eh, I’m more what you’d call a man on the street. Y’know, preaching to the lowest common denomination and all.”

Mettaton felt the simultaneous urges to wince at the pun and snicker at it, and successfully suppressed both of them for the sake of dignity. To his credit, the man seemed surprisingly easy to talk to, and he felt a vague desire to offer him some help, on the grounds that anyone wearing carpet slippers outside in winter probably needed some. An odd impulse, but he could put it down to him having just been helpful to him- after all, it was generally the kind of behavior one wanted to encourage. “Do you have any dinner plans tonight?” he asked tactfully.

“Oh, I don’t have any worries about that. I know my brother’s got something for me,” the man answered with an unmistakable note of fondness.

“Is this one of those things where all men are brothers, because we’re supposed to be the children of the divine or something?” Mettaton asked dubiously.

“Well, there’s definitely that too,” he replied cheerfully. “But in this specific case, I mean my parents’ other son. Can’t cook to save his life, bless him, but he tries real hard.”

“No one ever got anywhere without hard work, certainly.” Changing the topic, he added, “I have to say, I’m a little surprised by your sign. Wouldn’t we have noticed the end of the world around here?”

“No one ever does, once it’s over,” he said, with no trace of levity. “It comes down to break the bones of the world and up to topple the towers of the sky, but every time we forget because we don’t want to remember. We rebuild time and time again, in the same point, acting out the same roles, and every city is built on the ruins of what came before. Everything comes back round again, it’s only the details that change.”

“You… certainly have an evocative way with words,” Mettaton said weakly, trying to shake the sudden, deep sense of unease welling up in the pit of his soul.

“Occupational hazard of street preaching,” he winked jovially, suddenly all silliness and smiles again. “When you gotta get the entire sermon out before the light turns green, you learn how to say a lot in a little.”

“Yes, I imagine most speeches would have a delightful brevity if the audience had the option to drive away,” he seized on the more lighthearted tone with relief. “Still, I’m sure I’m glad to know you’re out here making sure we don’t somehow manage to miss Armageddon.”

“Aw, that’s not too hard a job,” he chuckled. “After all, Armageddon’s not a time so much as a place.”                                      

“Really?”

“Yeah, it comes from an old, old word,” the man answered, tone relaxed but eyes solemn. “Har-Megido. The mountain.”

“I…” Once again, he felt on the edge of something he didn’t understand, or perhaps something he _did_ understand on a level so deep the rest of him couldn’t see it, some ancient core of truth that recognized its importance.

“Hey, looks like it’s gonna start raining soon. You should probably get going now if you want to still be dry when you make it to your show.”

“Oh! Yes, thank you,” snapping out of his reverie, Mettaton gave the man one last dazzling smile before hurrying quickly across the street and up the steps into the nightclub.

As the doors opened, the preacher stepped smoothly back into the doorway, standing just enough under the awning to stay out of the rain, and hefted up his sign for the consideration of passing drivers.

The doors had just slammed shut when the first drop of rain hit the pavement.

  


 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Can you really call this a noir genre, I didn't get a hardboiled detective or anything. 
> 
> (The title is from the song This Is My Town, by Seanan McGuire.)


End file.
